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Wednesday, October 20, 2010

﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿ ﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿There are moments when the pressure, fear, frustration and anxiety of being a parent become so overwhelming and so daunting that a meltdown, at some point, is inevitable. That is how I felt last Friday. (Even in Wonderland, there is a threat; though it's not the Queen of Hearts - it's the Committee of Special Education. But that's for another posting.) I came home from work, threw myself on the sofa, I put my head in my hands and cried - loudly. It was the kind of cry that takes over your entire body, my shoulders shook, my head hurt and my chest ached. I kept wiping away my tears with both hands but the tears continued to spill out from my eyes. And I felt as small and as helpless as Alice, drowning in the pool of tears. I had spent the last week researching schools for next year, toured two schools (one of them featured a padded room). I questioned whether or not I was doing the right thing by Norrin. And I couldn't help but wonder if there was a place for him...and would I be able to find it?

And then in the middle of my hysterical sloppy meltdown, Norrin walked in the room. His eyebrows furrowed and he looked at me with genuine concern and confusion. He put his hands on my face and said, "Do not be afraid Mommy," and gave me a kiss. Of course, this made me cry even more. In addition to everything I had been feeling, now I had guilt; I hated for Norrin to see me cry. Norrin then jumped off the sofa and ran away. He returned with a single square of toilet paper and dried my tears.

I've read numerous reports on Norrin where someone has noted on his inability to relate. But in my moment of sadness, he related to me - in the sweetest and most appropriate way. I knew that I could not be afraid, because I could not fail him. And it was a comfort to know that as much as I am willing to fight for him and protect him - Norrin was willing to do the same for me.

Monday, October 4, 2010

"I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle."-- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventure in Wonderland

http://www.bedtime-story.com/bedtime-story

Norrin is not the same as a typically developing boy his age. I've known that for quite some time. And it is obviously apparent, on Saturday afternoon during our first appointment with the neuropsychologist. It is another attempt at solving the great puzzle: Who is Norrin?

"How old are you?" The neuropsychologist asks Norrin. Although he knows the answer, his eyes are void of any expression as if he hasn't heard the question. I often wonder where he is at these moments, when his eyes glaze over and staring off into some world that only Norrin knows. She repeats the question.

Joseph gives Norrin shoulder a nudge. "I'm fine." Norrin answers in his high-pitched voice. The neuropsychologist smiles and says, "You're a big boy for five." "He said 'I'm fine'," I say, correcting her. The neuropsychologist looks at me then back at Norrin. She nods, "Auditory Processing Disorder..."

We spend the next two hours in a small office where the neuropsychologist asks question after question. Sometimes Norrin answers quickly, other times Norrin stares off or wriggles his fingers in front of his face. When he retreats into his little world, the neuropsychologist looks at me and Joseph. "What do you do to bring him back?" We repeat his name until he wakes up and then (if he knows) he'll say the answer; I wonder if he's been listening all along and just pretending he's someplace else.

There are some questions, the neuropsychologist thinks Norrin can't answer and she is impressed when he does - especially for xylophone. She wanted to skip that picture after asking once, but I point to the picture and say in a firm voice, "Norrin. What is this? It starts with the letter X." From then on, I repeat all the questions that I know he knows. (When he answers, he uses that high pitched voice and when I tell him to "fix it" he repeats it in his deeper natural voice.) But still there are questions he cannot answer, i.e., "what are shoes for?" or "what do you say when you leave?"

I am often surprised by what Norrin knows. Like the time when Norrin held up a blank piece of paper and a pencil and said: architect. He said it so clearly and so sure of himself that it caught me completely off guard and I wondered - where he heard that word and how he knew to associate it with a paper and pencil. Or the day that I found his magnetic letters arranged into words: Dora, red, bird, home. Or when he's in his room and picks up a book - reading out loud. Always beginning with announcing the title, author and illustrator.

And then there is so much about Norrin that I long to know. What is it about Kipper the Dog he loves so much? I'd like to know about his day when he comes home from school, to talk about it at the table over dinner the way families on television do. Does he know he's different? Does he care? Where does he go when he stares off with that blank look - is he listening? Does he dream? If so, what does he dream about? But dreams are an abstract concept that he cannot comprehend.

He is my son, and yet in so many ways, a fascinating stranger to me. I know his favorite color, book and toy. I can tell you what Norrin loves to eat and describe how he eats a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or a donut. I can tell you that Norrin loves to swim and that he can be on a swing for hours without getting dizzy. I know he's really tired when he's sitting very still. But what he thinks? How he thinks? Or how he feels? I still have no idea - I am waiting just like everyone else.